


Time

by kylar



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Cancer, Cancer treatment, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Five Stages of Grief, Heavy Angst, Lung Cancer, M/M, vague smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 21:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9258350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylar/pseuds/kylar
Summary: "Time takes. Time corrupts. Time destroys. Time is greedy and ruthless and uncaring. It rips through your life and takes everything you’ve ever cared about. It ruins everything it touches. It doesn’t care about love, it doesn’t care about promises. It mocks, it taunts, it teases us with promises it has no intention of keeping. It wrecks havoc, and even if you can see it coming, you can’t stop it. Time is pain. So don’t tell me time will heal my wounds. Time gave me these wounds."





	

**Author's Note:**

> So sends me [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SD1ixuk8dpg/) and says, ‘so iwaoi au from Iwaizumi's pont of view....’ and makes me cry and puts all these ideas in my head and what I’m saying is that this is entirely their fault. I refuse to accept any blame for this. Also heavy inspiration from Collateral Beauty but that’s all on me.
> 
> ((Also also, I tried out a new writing style for this one and I really like it so let me know what you think about that too))

The city could be heard, a faint thrum through the window of their twelfth floor apartment. The blinds are open. The lights of the city filter into the dark apartment. An occasional shrill of sirens. A blare of a car horn. But for the most part, calm. A half full glass of wine on the coffee table next to a nearly empty beer bottle. The soft glow of the television cast across the room, accompanied by the monotonous tone of the documentary narrator. A heavy weight on his chest. Soft brown locks tickling at the underside of his chin. A hand held loosely in his.

The weight disappears. The padding of bare feet across the hardwood floor. Green eyes follow the footsteps until they disappear into the bathroom, then fall back on the television they’re hardly paying attention to. The beer bottle is emptied in one more swallow. The glass echoes softly through the room when it’s placed back on the table. Excited voices replace the monotonous tone. A commercial.

Coughing. His green eyes flicker back to the closed bathroom door. It’s not the first night disturbed by the coughing. Only one in weeks, nearly a month of nights. Back to the television.

The bathroom door creaks open. A soft voice laced with concern, and those green eyes are suddenly attentive. Standing in the open doorway, a hand held up, palm out. Red. Blood. More coughing.

…

He’s tired, but unable to even contemplate sleep. Eyes glance at the clock on the wall again. Every time they do, the thin hands haven’t moved far. It must be broken. _Tick, tock, tick, tock._ The sound vibrates through every cell of his body. Not only the sounds of the clock. The hospital is loud. Even at two in the morning. It’s a far cry from the relaxing, quiet atmosphere of the apartment that had been quickly vacated. Voices crackle over the intercom. People bustle through the halls. Stretchers with loose wheels. Every few minutes, the growing sounds of sirens and the shouting of voices. Crying.

But loudest of all… _tick, tock, tick, tock, tick…._ Green eyes flash to the clock. Definitely broken. It’s too slow. It’s taking too long. Hurry….

A man in a white coat. His nose buried in a clipboard, although his eyes don’t scan the paper. Young, new, unused to delivering bad news to family members. His footsteps draw him closer, closer. This doctor doesn’t pass him by. Stopped right in front of him. Blue, nervous eyes meet green.

Big words, muttered in a soft voice. Too quickly. Magnetic resonance imaging results. Biopsy. Respiratory glandular cells. Adenocarcinoma….

Another man in a white coat. Older. Tried and tested. Dark brown eyes much softer, more sympathetic, less pitying. A hand on the younger doctor’s shoulder, a clear dismissal. He’ll take it from here. Shorter words. Much more understandable. But the meaning is the same. In layman’s terms no less or more devastating.

Lung cancer.

_Tick, tock, tick… tock… tick. Tock._ Words are being spoken. The older doctor continues to explain, but his soft voice falls on deaf ears. The air is thin. The ground is swaying, shattering beneath him. A crushing weight collapses onto his shoulders, and they’re unable to hold it. Green eyes watch dark brown, but they don’t see. It’s impossible. There must’ve been a mistake. There’s no way that….

A hand grasping at his elbow. He’s steered to a chair. He sits. Numbly, unfeeling. The doctor is still talking. Treatment options. Surgery, radiation, chemotherapy. Percentages. Percentage that it’ll work? Too small. Percentage that a life will be cut much, much too short? Much, much too large.

It’s too much. His head is spinning, his entire world collapsing. This is all a dream. It’s a sick joke. It can’t be possible, any of it. It was just a cough.

The doctor’s eyes say it all. It’s not a joke. It’s not a dream. This is real. This is happening.

He wants to run. He wants to hide. He can’t handle this. _Tick, tock, tick, tock._ The clock is still broken. Now it goes too fast, those hands ticking away and away without a care. As if they aren’t bringing him closer to… as if they aren’t going to steal…. Time was going by too slowly earlier, but now it’s much too fast. Wasted seconds, each _tick, tock_ chipping away. If only he could stop it. If only he could rewind it. Rewind it to sharing a drink by the light of the television. Rewind it to promises to stay together forever. Rewind it to the squeak of shoes on a hard floor where an unbreakable bond was forged. Rewind it to tiny feet chasing each other in a backyard where friendships were formed. Rewind it to when time was all they had, everything they had.

The doctor is still talking. Do you want to see him? And the only possible answer.

It’s quieter in the small room. The glass door sliding shut on all the outside noise. But the noises in the room are far worse than those outside. Far worse than the wail of sirens. The static voice over the intercoms. The crying family members in the waiting room. It’s the beep of a heart monitor. The wheezing breath of the sole occupant. The _tick, tock, tick, tock_ that seems to follow him everywhere.

He lies against the white of the sheets. A needle is stuck into the crease of his elbow. A clip on the end of a finger. A plastic tube loops under his nose. It fogs with each breath. He doesn’t look much different than he did when they rushed out of their apartment. Exhausted, lethargic, but not much different. Perhaps this is a dream after all.

He wheezes in another breath.

There’s a chair near the edge of the bed. He takes it. Light brown eyes follow him. They watch his hand as he reaches up to take the one resting in the white sheets. Mind the wires. Don’t disturb the clip. Soft skin beneath the stroke of his thumb. Green eyes don’t lift from the ministrations. What does his he say? Where does he even begin?

Don’t look so down. It’s muttered in a soft, tired breath. Green eyes lift to meet light brown. A smile. Forced. Even now, even in this situation, he tries to hide his hurt, his pain, his suffering.

How can you be so carefree about this? He doesn’t mean to say it. The smile fades ever so slightly. The shock of the sudden, hard question. But it’s not gone long. It’s painted back on with an expert ease.

There’s no answer, and his next words are softer. We’ll fight this. Whatever it takes. I’ll make sure you’re okay.

The smile is no longer forced. Not entirely.

…

It's a sleepless night. And a restless day. Held in the hospital twenty-four hours for observation. Endless doctors and nurses. Specialists. A meeting with an oncologist. Appointments made. For surgery. For radiation. For chemotherapy. Then home. Finally. Home to an apartment that doesn't feel the way it was left. The air is different. Stiff. Suffocating. The relaxing air gone. Sucked away by the vacuum of reality. The air is different. Life is different.

They make love. At first, he doesn't think he can. He's not in the mood. How can he love when love is being ripped away? But some coaxing, a seductive smile- forced- and they're in bed. Skin touches skin. Breath mingles. Fingers weave together, hands clasped tight. His breath wheezes ever so slightly in between the moans. The calls of his name. Pleased whines. More wheezing. A cough.

They make love, and it's different than it usually is. Slow. Passionate. Feeling. They've always been passionate. That is not different. Time is different. Before, there was always tomorrow. An infinite number of tomorrows. Time was on their side. But now. Now it lurks over their shoulders, a sinister fanged smirk. It is there, its presence heavy. Weighing them down. It threatens to take everything away. Time doesn't wait. Doesn't make exceptions for love.

So they take their time. They take the time to feel every touch. To hear every sound. To experience every emotion. To memorize their passion. To love. Because time is not the only thing that can take. They can take time.

…

I think we should get another opinion.

His statement is met with silence. He refuses to acknowledge the statement at all. Light brown eyes never leave the television. Don’t even flicker up at him. It’s a documentary about aliens. They’ve both seen it a dozen times. His attention sticks. Or rather, refuses to shift. It’s silent. Except for the drone of the television. It’s dark out. But the city is bright. And so is the television. Two plates sit on the coffee table. One is untouched.

I found an oncologist in-

No.

The sharp word cuts him off. Cuts through the air. Final. Allowing no argument. He doesn’t look up from the television. Watches a slideshow of pictures of UFOs. His body is tense against his. He sighs. He expected this. But it can’t continue. This stubbornness. This refusal to acknowledge what is happening. A month hasn’t been long enough for their reality to sink in. Despite two surgeries. A round of radiation. Numerous appointments with the oncologist. He’s still stubborn in his refusal. He won’t talk about it. Won’t show any signs of understanding. Won’t face reality. As if not talking about it will make it go away. As if silence will result in nonexistence.

You need to talk about it. You can’t keep ignoring this. He says it softly. A gentle prod. An urge to open up. His patience is running thin. His own pain in acknowledging the situation- in fighting to turn it around, in struggling to best time- is hard to bare. He can’t keep doing it alone. Especially not if the alternative is to meet resistance at every step.

I don’t want to talk about it.

Not talking about it won’t make it go away.

He’s on his feet suddenly. Cold air replaces the heat of his skin. Despite still being weak from his radiation, he’s up. He’s pacing. Footsteps echo across the hardwood. Shadows shift across the wall. He’s angry. An angry energy courses through him. It’s clear to see. His hands tremble with it. Even before the words leave his mouth, his anger is apparent.

Why do you want me to talk about it? What will that change?

He stands, slower. He tries to keep his head. Tries not to snap. That won’t solve anything. It’ll change how you handle this, he tells him. His voice is hard. He didn’t intend for it to be.

I don’t want to talk about it!

He storms away. Towards the bedroom. Weak legs falter. Determination keeps them from giving. He follows. Catches the door before it slams in his face. Doesn’t say anything. Stands back, by the door. He watches. Lets anger run its course. They’ve had arguments before. He knows how they play out. Anger, lashing out, but eventually talking. Calm. Civil. But first the anger.

It won’t change anything, he says. Finally. After standing in silence for several heart beats. Not talking may not make this go away, but talking about it won’t either.

You can’t start healing until you-

I’ll never start healing! You heard what the doctor said! You heard the percentages!

I also heard him say that there is a chance. But not if you don’t fight for it.

What do you care? You’re not the one that’s dying!

It’s a slap to the face. A shock that he feels from head to toe. It resounds through his whole body. The truth of it. The way it’s flung at him. The way it’s intended to hurt him. This is how it plays out. Always. He says something intended to hurt. He says something sharp. Something cutting. He hopes it’ll drive everyone away. He wants everyone driven away. He doesn’t want to be seen like this. Upset. Hurting. It’s an instinctive reaction. Hiding a weakness. Protecting himself. But after so long, it doesn’t work. Not anymore. Not on him.

He drives in his heels. Grits his teeth. Anger flares within him. Red colors his vision. This time it hurts. More than anything ever thrown at him before. But he won’t let it drive him away. He can’t let it drive him away. Especially not now. Not with what they have to lose.

You think I don’t know that?! You think it doesn’t hurt me every day? You think I don’t hear those words over and over again? You think I haven’t spent every waking minute trying to figure out how to stop this? You think I haven’t pleaded every day for death to take me and spare you? Do you honestly think I am unaffected by the fact that I am losing you?

The atmosphere shifts. With every word, with every question. The anger evaporates. In both of them. Green meets light brown. And the atmosphere shifts. A lip quivers. A lump forms in a throat. Eyes water. The anger evaporates. And pain is all that’s left.

His fear is visible in his eyes. He didn’t want to talk because he didn’t want to face it. He didn’t want to face his fear. But it’s there. It’s in him. Before him. And he has to face it if he wants to fight it. He whimpers.

I don’t want to die.

A heart bruised, battered, already broken, can’t take anymore. Pushed beyond its limits. It shatters. Millions of shards scatter. No hope of ever putting it back together. No hope of it ever being whole again.

They’re in each other’s arms. There are tears. From both green eyes and light brown. They streak cheeks and stain shirts. Arms wrapped around bodies. Grips hard. Breaths shaking.

I don’t want to die. A sob. Ripped from the chest pressed so close.

I know.

We were supposed to grow old together. I was supposed to tease you for your grey hair and wrinkles. You were supposed to tease me for a cane I’d need by the time I was forty. Our love was supposed to grow greater and greater with each passing day. I was supposed to never get tired of waking up to your face morning after morning. We were supposed to be together forever. We were supposed to have so much time.

He doesn’t know how he gets the words past the lump in his throat. It sticks. It swells until it threatens to cut off his breath. It’s hard, trying not to cry. Trying not to completely break down in front of the one person that needs support. That needs stability. But tears well, and overflow. They are unstoppable. They blur his vision. Wet his cheeks. The lump grows. But still, he forces the words. The only words he can say.

I know.

…

Time continues. Plows forward, unable to be stopped. Unable to be rewound. Back to a time when everything was easy. Back to a time where pain didn’t exist. Back to a time where time was promised. It plows forward. And shrinks. Time is running out. _Tick, tock._

The television drones on. Another documentary. The voice of the narrator mingles with the sounds of the city. They flow in through the open window. It buzzes with life. Even at night. Sitting on the couch, a heavy weight on his chest. Light brown hair doesn’t tickle the underside of his chin. There are no thick locks. Only the dusting of fuzz. It’s starting to grow back. It’ll be gone again soon though. Unlike the bags under his eyes. The dark rings are there to stay. As is the pale, sickly skin. The weight lost. The tube under his nose. The oxygen tank at his side. The utter exhaustion. He’s asleep now. His breath wheezes at slowed intervals.

The documentary ends. An infomercial starts. The television clicks off. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t disturb the sleeping form against his chest. He’ll have back pains tomorrow. But that’s inconsequential. Not even worth worrying over. Tomorrow they’re going to the hospital. A longer stay this time. The last round of chemotherapy. And after that, tests. Tests and results that will tell whether the treatment worked. They both know what it will mean if it didn’t.

…

Failed. It’s been hours since the word was spoken. It hasn’t sunk in. The oncology ward is abuzz with activity. People pass by. Patients. Family members. Doctors. Nurses. They talk. They argue. They cry. Wheelchairs roll up and down the hallways. Patients on their way to tests. On their way back. There are intercoms here too. They crackle to life every few minutes. Nurses chat at their station. Sometimes they laugh. It’s the only laughter to be heard in this ward. The clock on the wall. _Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock…._

Hours. He should go back into that room. He can’t find his feet. Failed. It rings in his head. Over and over again. But he refuses to believe. After so long. After so many rounds of radiation and chemotherapy. Nearly a half dozen surgeries. How could it have failed? It was supposed to work. Treatment was started too late. It wasn’t caught early enough. That’s what the oncologist said. He had been coughing on and off for almost a year before that night. The night everything changed. The night he stepped out of the bathroom with a hand covered in blood. He should’ve been brought here a year sooner. He should’ve known something was wrong. When the cough didn’t go away. When he had trouble catching his breath. When easy activities started to wind him. The signs were there. He should’ve known.

Screaming at the oncologist hadn’t helped. He knew it wouldn’t. But the words came out anyway. Loud. Angry. Hurt. First denial. There’s no way that it failed. It wasn’t supposed to fail. It can’t have failed. Then anger. It’s the oncologist’s fault. He didn’t give the treatments the right way. He messed up the surgeries. Bargaining. What if they try again? What if they start a new treatment? What if they do a lung transplant? Now depression. Sitting alone in the waiting room. Trying to convince himself to go back into the room. He can’t face him. Not now. Not with his cheeks stained in tears. Hands shaking. Grief evident. He needs to gain control of himself. Needs to be a pillar. Needs to be strong for him. Needs to support him.

Hours. Finally, he finds his feet. The walk to the room is miles long. But also only mere feet. Stares at the door. At the doorknob. Deep breaths. Turn the doorknob. Step inside.

He’s awake. Lying on the bed beneath crisp white sheets. Eyes open. Blank. Unseeing. Dark circles. Cheeks sunken. Pale. Bony. Hands clenched in the blanket. A soft smile when the door opens. Light brown eyes follows the footsteps. The chair creaks. A hand reaches out. He takes it. Thin. Bony in his own. Kisses the clammy palm.

I’m sorry.

His eyes burn. His throat is thick with the tears threatening to spill over. Grits his teeth. Don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. Absolutely nothing.

Holds the thin hand to his face. Doesn’t let go. Never lets go. Cold against his skin. Against his lips. A thumb strokes his cheek. The stubble on his chin.

You can cry.

He doesn’t want to cry. He’s supposed to be the strong one. Show his support. Promise that it’ll be okay. It’s not okay. The pain is clear in his tone. He’s hurting. The morphine isn’t working. Not the way it used to. He wishes he could sleep. It would take the pain away. But sleep will take him away too. Take the last few moments of precious time away. He doesn’t want to lose that time. Selfish. Greedy.

It’ll be okay. It’s murmured. So soft. Quiet. But sure. Acceptance. I think I’m ready. I’m ready for the pain to go away. My only regret though is that I won’t be with you anymore. I’m not afraid of dying anymore. I’m afraid to be without you.

The tears can’t be stopped. A sob rips through him. Tears from his throat. He presses the hand to his face. Hard. As if he can absorb it into his own body. As if he can take him away from this fate. Away from a failing body. Away from the pain.

Sometimes love is pain, he says. His voice wheezes it. He coughs. He speaks again, questioning. But even so, was it worth it? Even though its pain now, was our love worth it?

Yes. He forces the word past his sobs. Removes the hand from his face. Green meets light brown. If our love is pain, then I’d gladly hurt for the rest of my life. If I knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have loved you any less. Yes, our love is worth the pain.

I love you.

A deep breath. You are my everything.

…

The city could be heard, a faint thrum through the open window. The blinds are open. The lights of the city filter into the dark apartment. An occasional shrill of sirens. A blare of a car horn. But for the most part, calm. A nearly empty bottle of beer on the coffee table. An untouched plate of food. The soft glow of the television cast across the room. The monotonous tone of the documentary narrator. No weight on his chest. No tickle of hair under his chin.

Too quiet. No excited commentary. No snarky corrections of misinformed facts. No laughs. Cold. No hand in his. No warmth between his legs, nestled against his chest. Even after so long it still feels weird. Awkward. Wrong. He shouldn’t be alone. Not here. Not in their apartment. In the pictures on the walls he’s not. Pictures from their childhood. Pictures from high school on a volleyball court. Pictures from college. Pictures from vacations. Pictures with their friends. In the picture in his wallet he’s not. The picture he keeps close at all times. He’s not alone in any of them. But sitting here. Sitting in the dark of their apartment. He is. Completely and entirely.

His chest is hollow. It lost the ability to feel long ago. Heart shriveled and broken. Time hasn’t healed it. Time will never heal it. The emptiness will never be filled. The presence that’s been there his entire life is gone. Snuffed out way too soon. That isn’t a wound that can be healed. Not in the last two years. Not in the next hundred years.

A knock on the front door. His eyes don’t leave the television. The program is almost over. He still can’t say with any certainty what it’s about. Another knock. Not even a flinch of recognition. He doesn’t want to see anybody. Seeing people at work every day is enough. Watching them go about their lives. Carefree. Happy. Living. He doesn’t want to be reminded what it feels like to live. He forgot how it felt years ago. Home is supposed to be his solitude. Where pretenses can disappear out the window. Where pain can be felt without the need to hide it.

A key in the lock. The door opens. Green eyes stay on the television. Stubborn in their refusal. He knows who it is. Only one other person has a key to the apartment.

Go away, he snaps.

Ignored. A mess of black hair enters his field of vision. He sits. Plops down on the other end of the couch. Green eyes don’t budge. Gold eyes watch him. Quiet. Only the sounds that of the city far beneath. He waits for his unwelcome guest to speak. He isn’t going to talk first. He doesn’t want to talk.

Tomorrow is your birthday. Come out with us to the bar. Drinks on me.

He doesn’t answer. The documentary is ending. He doesn’t reach for the remote. Doesn’t turn it off. Whatever is on next, he’ll watch it. For the distraction. Any excuse to ignore him.

A heavy sigh. C’mon. You can’t hole up in here for the rest of your life.

Watch me.

This isn’t healthy. I know it sucks. I can’t imagine what it must feel like. But you need to start trying to heal. Do you think this is what he would’ve wanted? For you to sit here in the dark and waste away and let your grief consume you?

Silence. He doesn’t grace that question with a response. He has no idea what it’s like. He has his relationship. A perfect relationship. Healthy. Thriving. Has all the time in the world. Doesn’t know what it feels like to have nothing. To have time stop. Two years ago his time ran out. But he’s still here. Living. Barely. Breathing. Barely. Alone. Empty. Time took the only thing worth living for. Ripped it away from him. Cold and uncaring. Ruthless. Ripped away his love. Ripped away any chance of ever feeling again.

Another sigh. It’s been two years. It’s time for you to start moving on. Time will heal your wounds, but you need to let it.

A laugh. At first, sharp. Derisive. Then hysterical. Disbelieving. Angry. Time won’t heal shit! Voice harsh. Words spat. Time doesn’t heal anything! Time takes. Time corrupts. Time destroys. Time is greedy and ruthless and uncaring. It rips through your life and takes everything you’ve ever cared about. It ruins everything it touches. It doesn’t care about love, it doesn’t care about promises. It mocks, it taunts, it teases us with promises it has no intention of keeping. It wrecks havoc, and even if you can see it coming, you can’t stop it. Time is pain. So don’t tell me time will heal my wounds. Time gave me these wounds.

Silence. It’s the angriest he’s gotten in years. It’s the first time he’s let out these thoughts. These feelings. He didn’t dare show them to anyone else before. Kept them inside. Buried. Hidden. Let them stew and grow and mutate. Let them consume him. Let them become all he is. And they burn to be let out. Sting to be put to voice. They pain him out loud as they have silently for years.

Gold eyes glow with pity. He doesn’t want pity. Yes time gave you those wounds, but so did love. Are you going to give up on love too? Do you regret loving him? Do you hate that you loved him?

Of course I don’t. Loving him was the greatest thing I ever did.

And do you regret the time you spent with him? Do you hate that time?

He hesitates. He knows the answer. Its automatic. But he doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to prove him right. The words find his lips anyway. Can’t be held back. Truth won’t be hidden. His feelings are too strong. They need to be heard. He needs to put to voice just how much their time meant to him.

He was the best thing that ever happened to me. Every minute spent with him was perfect. Even when we fought. Those twenty-eight years will forever be the best years of my life. I love the time I spent with him. If I could go back, if I could stop myself from falling in love with him, if I could prevent all this pain, I wouldn’t.

Gold eyes match the smile on his lips. A hand reaches out. Touches his shoulder. Soft. Caring. Supportive. He may feel alone. But he’s not. Not really. Nothing will ever completely fill the hole left behind. Will completely mend the shattered remains of his heart. But he’s not alone. People still care for him. People want to support him. He just needs to figure out how to accept that. How to reach out and take the offered hand. How to lean on someone else.

Time may be pain. But love is pain too.

His eyes widen at the words. Words he hasn’t heard spoken since…. They were some of his last words. He can hear that soft, wheezy voice whispering them from a hospital bed. He can see the smile that accompanied those words. He can feel the pain the words caused the first time. Echoed again when repeated.

Sometimes love is pain. But you can’t give up on it. You can’t give up on time either. Time may be pain sometimes, but it is also life. Right now, it’s all you have. So let it help you. Let it heal you.

He can feel himself give in. Can feel his willpower collapsing. He has no more fight. He’s been fighting for so long. He’s been hurting for so long. But it’s time to stop fighting. Time to take a step back. Time to let time heal his wounds. Time to lean on the support his friends offer. He’ll never forget what they had. Never be able to find anything like that again. This emptiness will never completely go away. But it doesn’t have to be this painful. He can let the wound start to close.

Come on. I’ll call the guys and we’ll go get some drinks. You need to get out of this apartment. You need to start living your life again. It’s what he would’ve wanted.

The tears are there, behind his eyelids. They sting. But they’re not brought on from his pain. They’re brought on from the truth in those words. He needs to start living again. It won’t be easy. Not in the slightest. But it’s what Tooru would’ve wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at [bokusaka](http://bokusaka.tumblr.com/) if you want to come yell at me


End file.
